


Time Heals All Wounds.

by Rose_Ann



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, I also condemn drunk driving don´t ever do that please, I mean write. I write drunk, I sometimes drive drunk, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 10:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_Ann/pseuds/Rose_Ann
Summary: An overview of Sam and Dean´s relationship as the years go by and, and how maturity and life experiences change their perceptions about each other, all the while forcing them to come to terms with their feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 100% full disclosure: I haven´t really followed the show in a long time. I just got back into it last season. So I know the nitty gritty of the whole thing, but some details might go pass me because honestly, it´s a lot of information and life is too short to watch 12 seasons all over again. And for that, I apologize in advance.  
> The chapters will follow Dean and Sam´s relationship as the years go by and how their perceptions of each other change with time. The ratings will go up as the chapters advance. There will be mentions of them with other people but nothing explicit.  
> I like some angst before the main event. Sorry for that as well. <3

Sam watches as Dean´s body slowly disappears underneath the roof of the Impala. He wonders how his brother can even stand staying out in the blazing sun like that for so long, without damaging his skin permanently. Maybe is one of those things they´ll only really find out years into the future. Like if Bobby will ever stop treating them like goddamn kids – even though they´re full bloom adults already–, or if there´ll be a time when their lives consist of more than just run down motel rooms and washing blood off their clothes. Who knows.  
The room they´re in this time isn't as much of a shithole as most of the other ones. The beds are still old and uncomfortable, and the bathtub is still way too small for either one of them, but the room has a decent AC, and Sam couldn´t be happier. Although he never complained about the heat out loud – all too afraid of Dean calling him a princess or something like that for not taking the temperature like a man–, he still managed to find excuses to hide away inside the room anytime he could. Dean didn´t ask and he didn´t mention it. Sam didn´t mention a lot of things.  
When this whole mess he calls a life began, 3 years ago, he thought of it as somewhat of a temporary thing. He would go on some hunts with Dean and dad, make some memories, raise some hell, get a few scars, but then once they realized that Sam wasn´t cut for the life, they would let him be. Sam would go back to college, work hard to build a decent future and maybe – just maybe – even find someone special along the way. Someone he would cherish and love, and make pancakes for on lazy Sunday mornings. Someone that would entice him and challenge him, but at the same time would make him feel safe and understood. Someone-- 

"Quit daydreaming, will ya? We´ve got things to do."

Dean is cleaning the engine oil from his hands with a rag that once was probably white. His strong muscles flexing with every swipe of the fabric. Back and forth. Back and forth. There was a time he wished to be savvy like his brother. Street-smart instead of a book worm. Brains over beauty, except Dean is no ‘dumb blond’, he just prefers to keep his wits a secret from most people. But Sam had plenty of proof of just how smart his brother can really be. From seeing him calculating big numbers mentally to finding a couple of really good essays he did back on senior year, he knows Dean could be just as intelligent as he is. But he probably leaves that to Sam, so he could have his own thing separate from him and them.  
When he´s removed from the trance he fell into, Sam asks:

"What things?"

"Finding out what the hell is going on in this city for starters. Killing whatever it is that´s doing it, and after that getting the fuck out in one piece. "

"Ah, the Winchester´s special: Get in. Shoot shit. Get out." Wake up. Rinse. Repeat. He thinks, bitterly.

"You bet." Dean goes into the tiny refrigerator and grabs 2 beers he put there before to get cold. He offers one to Sam, but he doesn't take it. "It´s warm outside. This will refresh ya." 

"Is cool enough in here, thanks." 

“So, I was thinking that this shit show sounds a lot like crazy cult gone wrong.”

“What makes you say that?” 

“Well, the bodies for once,” Dean pulls out some photos from the file. “This screams like human sacrifice. Don´t you think?”

 

Sam looks at the photos briefly “Or maybe someone making it look like it.”

“Normal people don´t just assume that everyone will see shit like that and think is a plausible explanation for anything--”

Outside, a woman walks by holding her baby, both protected from the harsh sun by a large umbrella she struggles to carry with her tiny arms. That´s the funny thing about mothers: they bend over backward to make sure that their children are safe and sound. Always holding more than they can carry and enduring more they could ever take, just for the sake of the children. Jess would´ve been a good mother. She was caring and warm, and any kid would be lucky to be held by her nurturing embrace. It´s been years, but Sam still misses her like it was yesterday. 

"...Sam! I´m talking to you!" 

"What?" he asks, rather annoyed. 

"Really, what´s it with you, dude? You´ve been acting like a moody little princess all day."

Sam sighs. Dean´s words are recited from their father´s book on ‘how to keep your sons in line all the while making them hate each other in the process’, and he´s beyond fed up with it. All they do is follow ghosts around. If it´s their father´s, mother´s or a random little girl´s who just wanted someone to play with, it´s all the same. They might as well just be ghost themselves. 

"I´m tired, Dean." 

"Of what? You´ve been in the room all day."

John used to tell them to 'be strong, boys!' and to 'play the hand that destiny gives you', but there´s only so much they can do with so little cards left. It´s true that time heals all wounds, and the hurt might even go away but the scars will forever grace the sensitive skin underneath.  
Sam looks up at him and just stares with his huge puppy-eyes turned cold. He doesn't answer the question and Dean doesn't press it. He probably knows the answer already.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years into his life as a hunter, Sam struggles with his brother´s lack of communication skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in one day, because why the hell not?

Bobby ironically buys him a cake to celebrate his 5-year anniversary as a hunter. An obnoxiously sweet and overly decorate cake with a huge "happy birthday, Sammy" and a mix of books and poorly draw guns made of fondant. The baker probably thought he was a seven-year-old boy with a grandfather who had very poor taste in cake decoration and a few loose screws in the head. Mostly he thinks is just an excuse for Bobby to eat a sugary dessert without being made fun of. Not that Sam would ever make fun of him for that, and Dean... well, he wouldn´t lose the opportunity to taunt the older man -- even though he has the sweetest tooth Sam has ever seen --, but it would probably be all in good sport.   
He´s sitting in the porch beside a piece o cake that´s still untouched when Dean approaches him. 

"Not enjoying your cake?" Dean pokes at his piece like he´s inspecting a homemade bomb. "Thought chocolate was your favorite." 

"I don´t think I have one, really. I´m not much of a sweets guy." 

"Well, it´s your loss. More for me." 

Dean nibbles at Sam´s piece unceremoniously, while still eating his own. To this day Dean´s appetite still manages to surprise him. Probably result of a lifetime of always being told to eat whatever is in front of him. 'Food is food, so don´t waste it'. John always said that there was never bad weather for a hunter´s stomach, but Sam begs to differ. They were never able to agree on anything, it seems.

"Do you miss dad?"

Dean swallows a mouthful of cake without even chewing it. It probably hurts all the way down. He´s frowning too, Sam can tell even though he´s trying to hide his face from him. 

"C´mon Sam..."

"You never talk about him. You never talk about mom either." He starts pouring salt on their never-healed wound. Too late to stop now. "I had this photo of her inside my bag... that one from before I was born where she´s wearing that dress full of daisies." 

"Sam..."

"I liked to look at it every now and then, and pretend that I had memories of her doing... stuff, you know? Cooking dinner for us, reading me bedtime stories, teaching me how to write my own name. Silly shit like that. After... Jess, I think it burned with the rest of my stuff. I would give anything to remember her, Dean. But I don´t." 

Dean lets out a heavy sigh. Sam thinks that the unevenness of his breath might mean that he´s trying to hold back tears, but that´s impossible. That´s not the brother he knows. Dean is like dad, always has been. A man´s man: Strong. Stoic. Doesn't have time for feelings, and even if he had, he wouldn't share his. Especially not with him. 

"That photo was taken the day that she found out she was pregnant with you. I don´t think I understood completely what it meant at the time, but she pulled me to the side and said 'Dean, you´re a big brother now. And you have to take care of Sam no matter what.' She didn´t know the gender yet, but the nickname she´d already picked." 

Sam watches Dean struggling to keep his composure. His eyes are glistening with tears and his voice fails him at times. Reveals the lump in his throat he´s been trying to swallow for years, but was never able too. Probably never will. Some hurts are not meant to go away.

"She had the most melodic laugh I´ve ever heard. Not to say that she was a good singer, because she wasn't. She couldn´t even sing twinkle twinkle little star right. But when she laughed... it was like music. Like real, honest-to-god music. And her hair smelled like fresh grass from an herbal shampoo she liked to use, and to this day when it rains, I avoid going outside until the leaves are completely dry." 

With that, he gets up and leaves. The air gets colder once he´s gone, makes the whole thing seem like a faraway dream. Sam´s face is a mix of endearment and utter and complete astonishment. In all the years he has played peter pan´s shadow with Dean, he´s never seen him talking so much about something so personal. Sure, they´ve sacrificed enough for each other to know exactly what they mean to one another, but Dean was always more about doing it than saying it. 'No chick flick moments, Sammy. We´re men.'. The Dean in his head says and he complies. Tomorrow his brother will probably say that he was drunk and pretend like he never even said anything. Dean does denial and self-destructive like is second nature to him. That much Sam knows. 

Later that night when he retreats to his room on Bobby´s house he finds a photo of Mary waiting for him on his bed. She´s smiling brightly at the camera while holding an infant in her arms. Probably Dean, he thinks. On the back of it written in perfectly drawn cursive: "My beloved Sam and I. July 1983." Sam doesn't have it in him to fight the outburst of tears running down his face. He doesn't want to. Their lives are so full of pain and sacrifice -- his mother´s, his father´s, dean´s and his all intertwined like a goddamn snake eating its own poisoned tail --, that he´ll allow himself this ounce of comfort and security. 

When he looks up at the door, Dean is leaning against the frame, the faintest of smiles on his lips.

"Don´t get it all wet, Sammy. It´s the last one we have." 

The little banter is nothing if not Dean´s own way of showing he cares without having to actually voice anything that isn´t an insult. This is his brother in a nutshell, and now he is more than happy to play along. Sam gets up, face still stained with tears, and walks up to Dean. He gives him a hug that he hopes conveys all that he´s feeling, and it´s surprised when Dean lingers a little in the embrace. 

"Goodnight, Sammy. Don´t let the bedbugs bite." 

"Goodnight, Dean." 

Sam lays down and closes his eyes. His fake memories of Mary and Dean´s real ones make a mess of his attempt of sleeping but he doesn't mind. Today he will allow himself to think about Mary, and dad and maybe even Jess. Saving the world can wait another day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After years of sharing an uncommon life with Dean, Sam gets an unexpected glimpse inside his brother´s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgot to say before, but I don´t have a beta. All mistakes are mine and all that jazz. Am I´m a little drunk? maybe. will it stop me from writing? never. this chapter is sponsor by grammarly.

In the 10 years he has been on the road with Dean, Sam has come to realize many important things:  
1\. never shy away from doing research; it´s what saves the day most of the times,  
2\. never spend more than 3 hours without eating anything; no one can save the world on an empty stomach,  
3\. Dean snores; no matter how many times he says he doesn't,  
4\. always go into a knife fight expecting a gun,  
5\. and last but certainly not least; Sam has complicated feelings for his brother.

In his post-adolescent hormonal haze – and before his first taste of freedom and life without Dean – he thought of him as an almost God-like being. (Cas would laugh at him for saying things like that nowadays, but still.) Dean was this unstoppable force who could do anything given enough time and motivation. He was Sam´s best friend and biggest inspiration.  
Sam was always a people pleaser from the get-go, but this compulsory need was never as pronounced as when it regarded Dean. He would do anything for his big brother. That´s probably why he decided to cut ties with him completely once he got into college. He knew that all it would take was a mere word from Dean and he would let it all behind, let it burn. In more ways than one, it did.  
Years later he managed to put a pin down on these feelings, acknowledge their existence, and then hide them inside a shoebox somewhere in the closet. By now he´s almost as good in denial as Dean. But he´s definitely still crowned king of hypocrisy: always pressing Dean to open up to him, 'break down the walls', all the while hiding his true nature. Hiding just how deeply messed up he really is. Maybe all that blood he was given as a child made it impossible for him to be anything but a twisted freak. Or maybe he was always rotten, and that just gave his body an excuse to perform in a way it was always meant to. He does belong in hell. Maybe somewhere even worse. Maybe–

Dean chuckles lithely, removing him from his thoughts.

"What´s so funny?"

Dean has his nose stuck inside a book and is surrounded by countless others. If that´s not some freaky friday shit, Sam doesn´t know what could be.

"I found some old journals from our firsts hunts. Mine and dads" He clarifies.

Sam is beyond amused, and he smiles. "You kept a diary?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "No... a journal. They´re different."

"How so?"

"Diaries are for feelings. Journals are for... stuff. "

"Stuff can mean feelings, Dean." Sam says, matter of factually.

"Not in this case, Sam."

"Ok, then mister no feelings allowed. What were these journals about?"

"Just..."

"Don´t say stuff. You can´t use this word anymore today."

"... things. Records of our hunts. Theories about the big baddies of the week."

"Can I see it?"

"Suit yourself, little brother."

Sam picks one journal from the pile sitting beside his brother and begins flipping through the pages. For someone who doesn´t care about tidiness and organization, Dean sure keeps meticulous records of the hunts. Maybe he´s one of those savant kids, but instead of calculus or some other scientific thing, his area of expertise is in all things murder. There are logs of weapons, number of blows per weapon per creature, number of kills and so on. If he didn´t know his brother like he does, Sam would think he was looking at some sort of serial killer diary. Dean even went to the extent of drawing some doodles in the corner of a few of the pages showing the creatures hanged or stabbed. They would be creepy if he wasn´t such a shit artist.  
The journals are mostly all the same. Some have a little bit more elaboration and seem a bit personal, so Sam skips those parts. He doesn't want to invade Dean´s privacy, even though his brother gave him permission to look. He probably doesn´t even remember what´s in half of those, and maybe that´s why he said yes. But it´s near the end of his fourth one when Sam´s eyes find his name written several times on one page and he can´t stop himself from reading it. He´ll ask for forgiveness later.

_...It´s been one and a half months since Sam went away. Stanford. Such a douchy name for a place full of douchy people. "Oh, look at me, I´m going to Stanford." Lame! Colleges don´t really teach you the important real-world shit. Can´t they talk for hours on end about_ whatever whatever _of the French revolution? Probably. but can they fix a leaking radiator with duct tape? Hell no! You´ll see. Sam will call me when he has some car trouble. No one works an engine_ like _I do. He´ll call. Sam will call..._

Sam stops. Looks up at Dean. He thought about calling his brother at least 2 times a day for the first 6 months he went there. He just assumed Dean wouldn´t want anything to do with him and talked himself out of. He wished he would´ve known.

_...It´s 5:30 pm now. I bet he must be sitting at some fancy coffee shop near campus talking to his smart ass friends about something very interesting that happened in class, and about how art can be so derivative at times. Douches! They must be having fun too. Laughing amongst themselves, not a care in the world. I wanted_

The sentence ends abruptly. But on the next page, Sam finds what he thinks is the rest of the previous one.

_...Meanwhile, I´m cleaning poltergeist gunk from my leather jacket. Yeah, Sammy, my favorite one that you used to "borrow" from me without ever telling me. I guess you liked to play_ bad _boy, huh? Walking around town, showing off to the girls. Remember that little blond one, with the freckles? Man, she loved you on that jacket. I was going out of the movies with my buddies one time and I heard her gushing to some of her friends that you had held her hand in the parking lot. Held her fucking hand! Ha! The girls I went out with were never that easy to impress. We did a lot more than hold hands. I can tell you that! And then they were saying how hot you looked with your leather jacket. I had the built but you were catching up to me pretty quickly. Figures. It always pissed me off that it looked better on you than it did on me. It was supposed to be my jacket, not yours! Joke´s on you, little brother. I guess now you don´t have a jacket to play bad boy in._  
_Because the jacket is here, with me. And you´re gone. In Stanford. And that is just..._

There´s a lump on Sam´s throat. Is there more of this on the other journals? He looks at Dean, who still chuckles every now and then, presumably amused with his entries. He can´t possibly remember that he wrote all this in there. He wouldn´t allow it to be read if he had. Sam adjusts himself on the chair and tries to regain some of his composure. He can´t let Dean know what he´s reading. Otherwise, he will take it from him. He gets up, trying to look as casual as possible about it and grabs some books – including Dean´s journal – and takes them to his room.

Once protected by his enclosure he opens it again. A couple of pages later he finds:

_...almost 6 months and no sign of you, Sammy. Really, little brother?! Not even a single call?! Not even to tell me you´re alive and well and all that shit. Things_ in _here are pretty crazy. Dad´s acting weird too. I don´t know what´s up his ass and honestly, I´m afraid to find out. But you don´t care about that, do you, Sammy. I guess you really are settling in just fine with your blond girl. That´s right! I dropped by to keep an eye on you. Whatchu gonna do? Hit me? Had to be here to do that, and you´re not. You´re in fucking Stanford. With what´s her name doing what the fuck._  
_Always knew you liked them blond, Sammy. Oh, Sammy, Sammy. So funny. Mom was a blond, you know? That guy Freud would have some things to say about that, for sure. Probably how you´re trying to find the mom you´ve never had and projecting it onto someone else. Or some shit like that. Maybe you don´t even like her for real. It´s just your sad orphan brain playing tricks on you..._

Wow, Dean. What a low blow. He loved Jess. Truly loved her, and for Dean to dismiss and reduce his feelings like this is all kinds of wrong. He contemplates dropping the journal and going downstairs to punch Dean right in the middle of his stupid face, but then his eyes get caught on the next paragraph and he forgets what he was even thinking in the first place.

_...Bet she´s all warm and maternal. Makes you feel understood and all that crap. Holds you at night. Whisper sweet nothings on your ear until you fall asleep. Again, like mom did. Boom! You´re so busted Sammy! See right through you. Always have. Always will. No one knows you_ like _I do. You´re the type who likes to cuddle, aren´t you Sammy? You used to latch on to me like a second skin when you were younger. Crying because you couldn´t sleep alone. Too scared. The monsters were going to get you. And your idiot big brother would run to the rescue and stay beside his little brother in bed. Watching over you. Every single night. But you´re not little anymore, are you? Nah! Last time I checked you were taller than me already. My Sammy is all grown up. Became a man. Don´t need me to protect you anymore. Andy you´ve got blondie to comfort you at night now. Bet you guys do that a lot. And other things too. Fuck, Sam… I Yeah, maybe I´m drunk. Sue me! Maybe I should be in fucking bed right trying to get some fucking sleep because I have fucking things to do tomorrow. Maybe I should just give up on you, and let you be with your little miss white picket fence, and have cute little babies with blond hair and green eyes. Do you remember that Dolly Parton song? That one mom liked. Fuck. You probably don´t remember_  
_I have to sleep. But when I lay down I..._ _tell me, Sammy, what should I do if I´m the one who can´t sleep alone now? I need to know._

_Sammy_


End file.
